


Where the Spirit Meets the Bones

by winterkill



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Bran as a plot device, Hurt/Comfort, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, M/M, Mutual Pining, Poor Jon is doing his best but life is just kicking his ass, Post - A Dance With Dragons, Sharing a Bed, Smut, Wargs & Warging (A Song of Ice and Fire), so please don't look too closely, the plot will blow away in a strong breeze, this is just 27k of all my Jon Snow feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:48:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29551662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterkill/pseuds/winterkill
Summary: When Jon wakes, the first thing he sees is Satin looking down at him; his pretty, dark eyes are filled with tears.“I....died.”Satin nods, “And I kept my watch.”
Relationships: Satin Flowers/Jon Snow
Comments: 29
Kudos: 58





	1. i just sit here and wait

**Author's Note:**

> This started as my desire to write a one shot that involved post-resurrection Jon. Then I decided to add some warging. Then I decided he should take back Winterfell. Then I wanted to write more book canon Jon/Satin. Then it suddenly became smutty. 
> 
> Anyway, I don't think I've ever written something where I've been more certain that I'm my only audience. I hope someone else finds it enjoyable to read because I had a good time writing it. The title comes from Taylor Swift's song "Ivy," which was in heavy rotation as a wrote.
> 
> This is five chapters long and is already complete, so you can expect timely updates!

Satin fears the Red Priestess.

He’s not the only member of the Night’s Watch who does; since the arrival of Stannis’s army, his fellow sworn brothers give her a wide berth. Satin hasn’t been at Castle Black nearly as long as some of the men, but it’s clear they aren’t dealing well with change. Stannis. His army and their demands. Melisandre. The wildlings who Jon let through the gates of the Wall. 

They aren’t pleased with the Lord Commander himself _._ There are rumors that Jon’s election was rigged by Samwell Tarly before Jon sent him south to the Citadel in Oldtown. The more senior stewards aren’t pleased with Jon’s decisions, especially Bowen Marsh.

Satin feels the tension in the air, brewing like a storm coming in off the Whispering Sound. In Oldtown, he'd sometimes go to the harbor and watch the ships. The air smelled of salt but also of moonbloom and peaches and pomegranates. Oldtown was a luscious, decadent place, if one was on the right side of things. Satin wasn’t, of course—he was painted and paraded and bought _._

Even at what felt like the end of the world, Satin couldn’t escape the circumstances of his birth. His sworn brothers judged him unworthy because he’d been born unlucky enough to be fucked for coin. As though that was a greater moral failing than any of the reasons they were sentenced to the Wall. Satin had taken no lives, had hurt no one at all.

Then, they had the gall to harass Satin—to shove him against the wall in the armory or corner him in his sleeping cell at night. The friends he’d made, and there were some, weren’t always present. It was Jon who’d given him a position coveted by others. It both shielded him and made him a target in new ways.

It also meant that Satin was close, and that he should’ve seen what was coming.

The men still loyal to Jon round up those who took part in the mutiny and put them in the coldest cells Castle Black has to offer. Satin is certain the cells aren’t as cold as Jon’s body feels. Tormund carries the Lord Commander to the large table in his chambers. When he leaves, a guard is posted at the door. Satin strips Jon of his cloak and gambison and shirt. They’re bloody and torn.

“I’m sorry,” Satin whispers as he runs a wet rag over the knife wounds that are still bleeding sluggishly. “I couldn’t...I couldn’t do _anything.”_

It’s not long before Satin realizes tears are streaming down his face. These last rites should be tended by someone else, someone _better._ Jon shouldn’t be alone with only a boywhore from Oldtown to clean and dress his body.

Jon, who’d been kind, kinder than anyone. Jon, who took the time to comfort him when he was scared, to try to improve his pathetic swordwork, who’d given him a steward’s quarters next to his own.

“You were good to me, my lord,” Satin whispers, “and I grew to love you for it.” It was a silent kind of love, never to be confessed or reciprocated, but it was better than Satin had ever known. 

A ruckus at the door pulls Satin from his thoughts. He turns to find the Red Priestess gliding through the door, snow dusting her fire-red hair and cloak.

Satin puts himself between Jon and Melisandre. The jape he made about her with Pyp and Grenn seems a lifetime ago. “No one’s going near—”

Whatever she intends to do, she can do through him. He doesn’t even feel any fear, which almost makes him laugh. _Brave, finally, when protecting a corpse._

It won’t be a bad place to die. There’s some honor in it.

Melisandre is dressed, as usual, in all crimson. She’s beautiful, but there’s an ever-present danger that makes it hard for Satin to breath. _It’s fine. I’ve only a few left, regardless._

“You won’t hurt him,” Satin says, “That’s been done enough.”

“I won’t,” the Red Priestess agrees, “This is not Lord Snow’s time.”

“W-What do you mean?” Satin heard strange rumors about the followers of R'hllor, about the magic they wield. It would’ve sounded like a story meant to scare a child, but Satin has seen happenings that made him wonder. The whispering of the weirwood trees, the talk of men made of ice who could raise the dead. 

_Jon, dreaming as Ghost._ There’s been no sign of the direwolf since Jon’s death.

“I mean his destiny is greater than this: I’ve seen it in the flames.”

Satin reaches behind and grips the sturdy wood of the table. “Tell me what you saw.”

Melisandre laughs, probably at Satin’s demand, “The flames show the future, but not always with clarity. I...was mistaken. Lord Stannis is a false king.”

“I...don’t...” The idea is too big—prophecies and magic were beyond Satin. “S-Speak plainly.”

“I will bring him back from the darkness,” she says, “and breath the flames of R’hllor into his lungs. This will grant him life back anew.”

_“Life.”_

“Lord Snow’s wounds are fresh.” Melisandre slips around Satin and trails her fingers over Jon’s torso. Satin doesn’t even think to halt her. “The longer he is gone, the harder the return will be. His memories. His body. His _soul._ ” Her red gaze moves to Satin. “He will need...care.”

Satin takes a deep breath and nods. _Finally, something I can do._

* * *

When Jon wakes, the first thing he sees is Satin looking down at him; his pretty, dark eyes are filled with tears.

The air rushes back into his lungs with a gasp. It’s like he’s making up for a hundred missed breaths all at once. Now matter how deep he fills his lungs, it’s not enough. Once, when he was a boy at Winterfell, Robb knocked him off his horse during a hunt in the Wolfswood. His back hit the leave-strewn forest floor, and for a few moments it felt like he was dying.

Robb, the _shit_ , had hopped off his horse, laughing, and helped Jon up.

Before he woke up, Jon had been running through a snowy forest not so different from the Wolfswood. Colder. _Darker._ The forest is familiar to Ghost, so it’s familiar to Jon.

_We are one._

Time passes strangely after that. Jon’s awake, but he doesn’t _see._ Instead, he’s dragged in and out of fragments of dreams. Hunting as Ghost. The thrill of a fresh kill under his— _their—_ fangs. Blood pouring out. More memories of Robb and Arya and Sansa. Catelyn, standing over Bran’s broken body. _I wish it had been you._

There are patches where he feels _almost_ cogent. A stream of cool water on his cracked lips. Being moved to a bed and tucked snuggly under covers. The solid comfort of a hand holding his. Occasionally, Jon hears hushed voices, a woman and a man, or sometimes two men, but no words reach him.

Then, after a span of time he can’t comprehend, Jon hears his name.

_“Jon.”_

It’s nice, hearing it unadorned like that, so he opens his eyes to find Satin’s brown doe eyes peering over him on the bed.

 _“I—I’m—”_ Jon is many things simultaneously—hungry, thirsty, _cold._ “I need to piss.”

There’s an inglorious moment where Satin grabs a chamber pot before turning his back to give Jon some privacy. His limbs feel like both lead _and_ jelly, but he doesn’t piss all over himself or the bed linens, which is a start. Satin takes the pot, after, and carries it off somewhere.

“Corpses don’t piss,” Satin whispers. He sounds so awed, and Jon is _so_ confused.

“What?”

“You’ve been...you _were—”_

Jon tries to settle back under the furs, but everything feels so _heavy_ that he struggles. Satin tucks everything snugly around him when he’s prone once more, then stands beside the bed. The cold creeps back, like it’s settling against Jon’s very spine to spread through his limbs. It’s colder than standing watch on the highest part of the Wall, colder than the traipsing through the Frostfangs on foot. 

So cold that it was all Jon felt. Not the fourth knife, or the one after. _Ghost._

“I....died.”

Satin nods, “And I kept my watch.”

Jon takes a deep breath, but it comes up short, “And then…?”

“The Red Priestess. She _kissed_ you, and then you were here.”

“How long was I gone?”

“A few hours. You slept for an entire night and day. It’s the middle of the night.”

“It felt...longer,” Jon whispers and shuts his eyes, “Time didn’t mean anything where I was.”

Satin hesitates, surely on some boundary in their relationship, before perching delicately on the edge of the bed. They’re not touching, but Jon can feel the weight of Satin’s body creating a dip in the mattress. When Jon opens his eyes, Satin is watching him intently.

“My lord, where did you _go?”_

It’s a monumental question. _Where did death leave you?_ The Seven Hells, or a softer, kinder place? _A place where I might meet my mother._ Or, more frightening... _nothing._ Satin keeps his faith with the Seven, and Jon with the Old Gods, but Satin told him once, months ago, of feeling the weighty presence of _something_ when kneeling under the weirwood.

“There was...nothing, at first. Utter blackness. Then, I dreamed. Memories, first, but then...I think it was Ghost,” Jon struggles to articulate the feeling, “A dream, but not.”

Satin nods, “No one has seen Ghost since you...died.”

“He’s in the forests beyond the Wall. He’ll return when he’s ready.”

Satin offers Jon water and bread and broth, which he gratefully accepts, and they talk. He learns of the imprisonment of the mutineers and the disarray the Night’s Watch has been left in. A sense of duty stirs in Jon—Father was right that he should be the one to mete out justice. It shouldn’t be Melisandre, who would surely choose to sacrifice them to her god. It shouldn’t be anyone else, either. Jon was the 998th Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, even if no one wanted him to be.

_Maybe, in the end, I wasn’t fit to lead._

When Jon tries to free himself from the blankets, Satin shakes his head, “You don’t have to go behead them tonight, my lord. Another night in the cold cells won’t kill them before you have the chance.”

“I—” _Want revenge._ The anger boiling within him is more than just the need for justice. Satin stares at him, all soft concern, and Jon sighs. “Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” Satin repeats, “We’ve kept everyone who isn’t loyal away from your chambers. I’ll let you rest, my lord.”

“Wait, Satin.” The prospect of falling asleep and meeting that black nothingness again is unbearable. _What if Ghost isn’t there this time? What if I don’t awake?_ Jon didn’t quite grasp how he went into Ghost’s mind, let alone how to repeat it. 

“My lord?”

“You can stay, if you’d like.”

“Is that your command?”

“No. Just...a request. I mislike the idea of being alone right now.” Jon feels like if he’s left by himself, that perhaps whatever is lashing his spirit to his body will give way, and he won’t come back this time.

Satin is oddly perceptive, and it far exceeds any shortcomings in his duties as steward. He rises from the edge of the bed to bank the fire a final time before sitting back down and removing his boots. His cloak and outerwear are already draped on a nearby chair. Instinctively, Jon moves further inward on the bed, nearly to the stone wall. 

“We used to do this when I was a boy,” Satin whispers, “There were other children, and sometimes we’d feel safer together.”

“My brother and I would sleep together. I know my sisters did, too, even when they fought like cats and dogs.” 

“This is just the same, then,” Satin pulls the furs up around their shoulders and settles down so he’s facing Jon. 

They’re close enough that Jon can feel the heat radiating from Satin’s body, and their knees bump together. Satin feels so much _warmer_ than he does, and Jon has to stop himself from curling closer. He feels how Jon wants to feel—alive and with blood running through his veins. He’d never taken something so simple for granted before.

“You’ve my thanks.” 

Satin comes a little closer, draping his arm loosely over Jon’s torso, “Don’t worry, my lord, I won’t mention this in the morning.” 

Jon closes his eyes, and the sleep that claims him this time is peaceful.

* * *

Satin doesn’t look away when Jon brings Longclaw down on Bowen Marsh’s neck.

The rest of his sworn brothers don’t avert their eyes, either, because their Lord Commander orders them not to. It’s the same with Wick Whittlestick, who cries before Jon brings down the blade. There’s a third man man, and a forth, and a fifth. Satin counts them as he’d counted the stab wounds on Jon’s body.

“For the Watch,” the last one says, and Satin finds that he agrees but for very different reasons.

If anyone is squeamish at the sight of heads rolling in the snow, their expressions don’t bely it. The men of the Night’s Watch are _hard,_ much harder than Satin, who was raised amongst perfumes and silks. _Rapists and murders,_ Jon had told him once, _yet they judge you._ Satin knows a different sort of violence—more intimate and invisible. Even having killed men, the carnage of a battle, of an execution, still turns Satin’s stomach. For Jon, Satin watches, but he has to find a discreet corner of the yard to lose his breakfast after.

Satin feels a grim sense of satisfaction in Bowen Marsh’s death, and that’s how he knows the Night’s Watch has changed him. He’s never been _happy_ to see a man put to death. He could take a man’s life if he needed to, if it was his life or theirs, but Satin never wanted to grow numb to the feeling of killing.

Jon’s not numb to it, either; Satin can see it in the tense line of his shoulders as he wipes the blood from Longclaw’s blade. 

The Red Priestess and the wildlings watch, too. 

“The justice of R'hllor was carried out on this day.” Her crimson-gaze surveys the scene dispassionately before turning to Jon. “Let today be a lesson to you, Lord Snow; the flames tell me a third chance will not be mine to grant.”

The shame at the memory of mocking the Red Priestess is even more acute now. Satin follows the Faith of the Seven, but without Melisandre’s powers, Jon would still be dead.

Much later, when they’re alone in the Lord Commander’s chamber, and he’s serving Jon his supper, Satin asks, “My lord, why did you...do it yourself?”

Lately, Jon’s attention drifts, so when he looks up, he seems a bit startled. “My father told me the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. It was the law of the First Men.”

Satin isn’t sure how to respond, so he puts the tray of food on the table. That’s a task he can handle. “You didn’t want to pass a hard task to someone else?”

Jon nods, “What kind of leader would I be to sentence a man to death and make someone else do the deed? My father never gave a man a task he wouldn’t do himself.”

It’s an honorable, fair reason, but Satin wonders if it’s the entirety. Jon was a good man, but he was still just a man. Humans were filled with baser emotions and impulses. Satin has seen the worst of that in men, and it makes him wonder what Jon hides.

“So it was for...honor?” Satin asks.

“Are you asking if I wanted revenge?”

Satin is a bit afraid to admit it, but he nods. “I don’t...I don’t think anyone would blame you. I—I’ve wanted revenge before. If I had the chance, if it was within my power, I might—”

“I wanted revenge.” Jon takes a deep breath, and it sounds like it unknots something deep in his chest. “They _killed_ me, and I wanted to show them that they didn’t win. I wanted Bowen Marsh’s last thought to be that he failed.”

“My lord.” _Jon,_ Satin wants to say, but it’s too familiar. “I was glad today. I thought _this is what they earned.”_

“Father...my brother, Robb, they’d be disappointed in me, I think. The punishment suited the crime, but I took pleasure in the deed. That makes me unworthy to be Lord Commander.”

“It doesn’t,” Satin blurts, “I think you’re a fine Lord Commander.”

Jon laughs, a rare sound as of late, and smacks his knee as he does, “I appreciate your confidence, truly.”

Satin feels foolish, so he pours Jon’s wine and ducks his head to hide it. “I, uh, I’ll leave you to your meal, my lord.”

“Satin, you’re my brother, stay and eat if you’d like.”

It’s not the first meal they share as equals. Satin thinks being Jon’s steward is a gift as far as assignments at Castle Black go. Jon asks for very little and is patient with Satin for not knowing how to do tasks like saddle a horse. Jon doesn’t mention Satin’s past, yet it never feels like he’s trying to pretend it doesn’t exist.

 _A whore and a highborn bastard dining together._ A jape that’s become a normal scene.

“I never wished to be Lord Commander,” Jon says after a few minutes of eating in silence, “I wonder how many men today were happy at my death, even if they didn’t wield the knife.”

“I wish I could answer _none,_ but…”

“Aye,” his laugh is bitter this time, “I’ve seen what waits for us in the North, and if we waste time fighting amongst ourselves, we’re all going to die.”

Satin shivers even though the fire is crackling heartily in the fireplace. _The dead, risen again, and men made of ice._ Only they were shambling corpses, rather than kissed by the flames of the Lord of Light. Jon dreams of them now, too—Satin hears him awake, gasping, through their shared chamber wall. Jon dreams of many things.

 _There’s nothing I can do._

"What would you have us do?" 

Jon considers the question for a long time, picking at a turnip on his plate. "I think we need to unite—Free Folk, Northerner, Southerner—the dead won't discriminate."

There are other threats in the South. Satin watched Jon read the messages sent by raven. The Boltons holding Winterfell. The Lannisters in King's Landing. The Dragon Queen in the east. Before the mutiny, Jon had ordered a march on Winterfell to take back his home.

Satin doesn't know what the best course is, but he knows one thing. "The men left here will follow you. The wildlings will, too. When you died, the Red Priestess told me you were meant for a greater purpose than the Night's Watch."

_A king._

Jon looks stricken, so Satin holds his tongue.

"I won't force my sworn brothers or the Free Folk to march south, but if they come willingly, then perhaps," Jon pauses, "Satin, do you know what ends a man's oath to the Night's Watch?"

Satin takes a deep breath and answers.

_"Death."_

* * *

He makes a speech. 

It's not a grand one, not one that would inspire men for ages to come or end up in some grand tale, but it says what needs said. The ravens he sends to Eastwatch and the Shadowtower are more eloquent, but Jon knows better than to expect any reinforcements. _I know nothing,_ he wants to tell his sworn brothers. He focused on what he thought he _should_ be doing and ignored the literal knives in the dark. 

_Ygritte was right._ She changed Jon—made him see the Free Folk as more than the stories he heard as a boy. She made him see the rigid hierarchy that made him feel lesser wasn’t the only way to see the world. Jon grew, but it only made him realize what he didn’t know.

_I'm not the man for this, but I'm the man who's been tasked with it, and I could use your aid._

Robb should be the one marching on Winterfell, but Robb died in the South, and there is nothing Jon can do to change that. Ramsey's letter, long ago turned to ash in a fire, lingers behind Jon's eyes.

_Bastard._

Stannis Baratheon’s offer held a certain appeal. As king, Stannis could make Jon what he wished to be as a boy. He could make Jon a Stark and offer him a birthright that wasn’t his. A birthright that belonged to Robb. Even if Jon had been certain, burning the heart tree in Winterfell’s godswood was unacceptable. 

If Arya is at Winterfell, Jon must get to her. If it's a ruse, Jon wants Ramsey and his ilk out of his home. He wants to put Ramsey to the sword. He might even let Melisandre sacrifice him to the Red God. Then, he wants to search for Sansa and Rickon and Bran and keep together what's left of his family. 

He wants to be ready when the Others come. The Wall won't stop them; it will only slow them and to their army. Jon says all of this to the remaining men of the Night's Watch, to the Free Folk he promised land south of the Wall. He has nothing but his honor to back his promise.

Shockingly, it _works._

Melisandre's counsel becomes valuable, even though Jon isn't pleased by it. She stares into the fire and speaks in vague, circular logic that irritates him. Jon’s never liked prophecy, but he can't deny that she warned him of the betrayal by his sworn brothers. She warned him of other things, too. 

"The fire is clearer, here," she whispers to him, "Marching south is the correct course."

Jon is going to do it either way, but he still asks, “Why, other than the obvious?”

Melisandre replies, “There’s something you’ve yet to discover about yourself—a truth you won’t find the answer to here.”

“You think I’m,” Jon hates to even utter the words, “...meant to be a king?” _A bastard king._ _And king of what?_ Stannis offered to make him Jon Stark, Lord of Winterfell, but that wasn’t a king.

“The flames have shown me that you are the man I’ve been waiting for.”

"Are you just repeating what you told Stannis Baratheon?” Jon snaps, “He believed every honeyed word for your lips that suited his aims.”

Mentioning Stannis is the only time the fire burning behind Melisandre’s eyes dampens. Jon wonders what Stannis himself would say if he learned what transpired since he left Castle Black. The last Jon heard is that Stannis is trying to rally the northern houses behind his cause.

Jon commands the garrison Stannis left to remain at Castle Black along with any Free Folk who wish to stay with Tormund. There are members of the Night’s Watch who chose not to follow him. The number who pledge to accompany him raise his spirits. The loyalty makes Jon think there isn’t a knife waiting in the dark around every corner. The Red Priestess elects to come, too—Jon doesn’t think it’s wise, but he also doesn’t think he could stop her. A small group arrives from Eastwatch, including Pyp and Grenn. They each clap Jon hard on the back.

“I knew you’d miss us,” Pyp says, and Grenn laughs.

If someone asked after his health, Jon would admit that he isn’t faring well in the wake of his death. He finds himself irritable and easily distracted from the task at hand. Sleep eludes Jon, and when he does sleep, he _dreams._ Only, his nights spent running through the forest aren’t mere dreams.

“Ghost and I become one,” he tells Satin one morning when he is so tired he can barely hold his eyes open, “and I can’t control it.”

 _Skinchanging,_ the Free Folk called it. Old Nan spoke of it when Robb and Jon were boys. _Warging,_ she had called it. The name didn’t matter, only that Ghost was where Jon’s mind retreated when his life leeched out of him into the snow. The Red Priestess might’ve been the one who returned him from death, but it was Ghost who had kept him from losing himself.

It’s a matter Jon will need to address when he finds the time. For now, he comes to rely quite heavily on Satin as his steward. Bowen Marsh and Septon Cellador had cautioned Jon against Satin’s appointment, but Jon has never regretted the choice.

Satin was the first person Jon saw when he woke up. Satin was the one who kept him together over the past weeks. Nevertheless, Jon won’t ask Satin to march south. His archery is passable, and Satin is braver than most, but he isn’t a soldier. 

“For now, you’ll be safer at Castle Black,” Jon says one evening a sennight or so before they’re set to leave.

“Safer?” Satin turns from where he’s tending Jon’s clothes, eyes wide.

“It will be a hard march, and I can’t guarantee it won’t end in my, and everyone else’s, deaths.”

“You’re commanding me to remain here?” It’s not that Satin is never defiant, but it’s usually to urge Jon to choose a gentler course for him, like going to bed early. 

Jon sighs and closes his eyes, “I’ve ordered no one to remain or go, and I won’t do that with you, either.”

“But you think I should stay?”

“I do.”

The hurt on Satin’s features is open and obvious. He clutches Jon’s shirt between his hands, and his eyes are downcast. Even after over a year at Castle Black, he’s still delicate in so many ways. The calluses on his hands from the crossbow don’t hide the graceful curve of his fingers. The beard he’d grown to keep warm doesn’t change that looks at Jon with pretty, dark eyes. Satin’s softness will always look out of place here.

“Are you unhappy with my service?” Satin asks, “I know I’m not very good, but surely you’ve noticed that, too. I can learn.”

“No, Satin, you’ve been...invaluable.”

“Then why?”

“I don’t want your death on my hands. It would be...I might not recover.” The last sentence is ripped from a place in Jon’s heart that’s steeped in loss. _Father. Robb._ _Ygritte._ There has been too much loss, and more is coming.

“You told me we needed to unite, that the dead would come for all of us. Nowhere will be safe.”

Jon answers, “We’ve time before then. You don’t need to throw your life away over this.”

“I’m coming with you, my lord.”

“Satin—”

“You stood before us and asked for your sworn brothers’ help in this fight, and all the fights to come. You said there was something greater that we would need to face. Was that just pretty words?” He has heard Satin yell in excitement before but never raise his voice in anger. It has quite a chilling effect. “You gave us a choice, but you won’t accept mine?”

It feels selfish to ask it of Satin, more selfish than the general call he’d made to the rest of the Night’s Watch. Jon finds comfort in Satin’s steady companionship, in the man who crawled into bed with him on the night he should’ve remained dead. It’s Satin who begins and ends his days with some semblance of normalcy.

“I can’t ask you to come.”

“You already did,” Satin answers, “but you needn’t have. I knelt in the godswood and swore the same oath as you. I won’t abandon my post.”

Now, it’s Jon who raises his voice, the frantic sort of irritation that’s become so familiar overcoming him. “I don’t even know what this _means_ for the Night’s Watch. I think Bowen Marsh broke it when he killed me, or maybe I broke it before. Maybe _I’m_ broken, and Sam was a fool for pushing for me to be Lord Commander.”

His steward doesn’t even react to the outburst. He only watches Jon. “If I’m fated to die, I’d like to die helping you do what you think is worthy.”

“Is there honor in that? I’ve nothing to offer you but the possibility of a painful death. I’m not a king, or a lord, whatever the Red Priestess says. I’m just a bastard.”

“I’ll follow you still, my lord.” 

Something in Jon’s soul knows to keep faith in that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time, Jon takes out the trash at Winterfell, pines for his steward (who pines back), and Sansa and her merry band of travelers appear.


	2. my house of stone, your ivy grows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their march is long and cold and tiring. Satin is sore from days spent in a saddle, and his body aches from sleeping on the ground. Jon looks at him, overlong and concerned, but Satin hides the discomfort. He’s good at that, and the purpose is a noble one this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and comments on the last chapter! I'm thrilled this little rarepair fic has found an audience.
> 
> This chapter is where I start handwaving the plot in favor of writing feelings and kissing. Please don't ask me in detail what happened to Stannis or Theon because I don't know. Let's say Stannis, acting as king (for the moment, at least) pardoned the members of the Night's Watch who accompanied Jon, then marched south. Now everyone is hanging out at Winterfell. 🤷

Their march is long and cold and tiring. Satin is sore from days spent in a saddle, and his body aches from sleeping on the ground. Jon looks at him, overlong and concerned, but Satin hides the discomfort. He’s good at that, and the purpose is a noble one this time.

It was never warm at Castle Black, but Satin grew used to it. He never went ranging beyond the Wall. The godswood where he swore his oaths was the furthest he’d ever gone. From the way Jon described it, Satin was fine with staying put. It felt surreal, though, that he was fated to spend every remaining day of his life there. 

The coldest nights were the ones on watch atop the Wall, staring out into the blackness of the night and imagining the terrors that could come at them. Most of the wildlings weren’t so frightening any longer. Being a steward insulated Satin, literally and figuratively. The castle was drafty and ancient, but there were fires and thick stone walls to keep out the cold. Jon’s chambers were probably the coziest place in Castle Black.

Satin’s never outright asked, but he sometimes wonders if Jon was paying him a kindness by choosing him as steward. He was a whore, not a soldier, and without Jon’s intervention, someone at Castle Black would surely have tried to make him one again. He’d been harassed by men who shamed him for his past, but who would try and fuck him if he let his guard down. They might pretend he was a maid, but it wouldn’t stop them.

They might whisper that Satin is Jon’s pet, or his whore, but Jon has barely touched him beyond a friendly pat on the back or shoulder. Jon doesn’t use his power to push Satin onto his back or down to his knees. Jon doesn’t look at him like a piece of flesh he can pay for.

It’s a new feeling, but when they march from Castle Black, Satin starts to ponder what it might be like if Jon _did_ touch him. As the Lord Commander’s steward, Satin shares Jon’s tent, and it’s so frigid that they put their bedrolls close together atop the furs on the cold ground. Satin falls asleep with Jon’s back pressed against his, sometimes with Ghost near their feet.

Wishing is a dangerous activity for a whore, but Satin can’t stop himself.

Jon is handsome, and kind, and _fair_. In Satin’s fantasies, he's just the same. Jon looks at Satin and doesn’t only see all the people who’ve fucked him. Jon doesn’t want to claim him or pretend he’s the first to have him. He wouldn’t find Satin less valuable now that he’s become a man grown. Satin knows about Ygritte, so Jon isn’t totally inexperienced, but it’s different with a man. Maybe he’d ask, probably a bit sheepishly, what Satin wanted, and maybe Satin would be able to find the words.

Despite Satin’s guilt, the fantasies unfurl in his mind like a thick carpet bounding down a staircase, revealing his desires as they go. It’s not that Satin’s never felt pleasure, but he’s never sought it for himself. If it happened, it was secondary to the feelings of whomever bought him. It could just as easily be pain or fear or humiliation. 

As they near Winterfell, a raven from Stannis’s army informs them that the snows have let up enough that they can make an advance. Satin reads the letter to Jon, stumbling over some of the words, and Jon calls everyone to the table in his tent when they make camp that night.

“I know Winterfell’s defenses,” Jon explains, “and I know where the Boltons have placed extra men.” He continues on, explaining how to press their advantages and bolster their weak points. Satin knows nothing about battle tactics, but Jon’s confident tone raises everyone’s spirits.

One of their sworn brothers asks, “How do you know all this, my lord?”

Two nights prior, Ghost had left their camp after dark and not returned until the weak rays of dawn appeared in the sky. Satin, wide awake, watched Jon, deep in a dream. Normally, Jon was a light sleeper, but when he dreamed as Ghost, his body went completely still, and he couldn’t be woken.

“This will make me sound mad,” Jon replies, “but I saw it in a dream.”

* * *

The last time Jon sees Satin, he’s scrabbling up one of the ladders leading up to the parapets on Winterfell’s eastern wall, crossbow in hand. Jon and Robb used to stand on the very same wall and look for their father coming down the Kingsroad. He can only spare his steward the briefest of glances in the midst of the chaos.

Several bloody, exhausting hours later, Ramsay Snow and his men are dead. Sections of Winterfell are smoldering ruins, and they spend hours dragging corpses into pyres to be burned. 

When Jon has a moment to stop running on instinct, his thoughts turn to Satin. It’s been hours since Satin scrambled up the wall. The keep and the yard are in chaos, but Jon asks one man after another until one informs him Satin was seen heading the maester’s tower.

The room is as much in disarray as every other space—cabinets upended and tables strewn with debris. Like every space at Winterfell, Jon has to guard himself from being overrun by memories. Maester Luwin used to treat Arya’s scrapes here. This is where Robb came when he fell off his horse when they were young.

The daylight is fading fast. Satin has lit two of the torches lining the walls. His back is turned to Jon, and he’s fussing over something on the large table. There’s a bolt of linen and some glass vials.

_He’s looking for things to treat the wounded._

“Satin,” Jon calls out, voice hoarse from yelling.

His steward jumps and reaches for the crossbow lying on the table near him. Then, Satin’s shoulders relax, and he turns to face Jon.

“My lord,” he takes a deep breath, “I was just...looking for something productive to do. I’m no maester, but I can do _something.”_

“Did you hit anyone with your crossbow?”

“A-A few, I think. My aim really isn’t that great, and when I was—”

 _Scared._ Jon was frightened, too; there was just no one he could admit it to. He should’ve asked his father how to overcome feeling paralyzed in a moment when one needed to act. He should’ve asked many things, honestly.

“Are you unharmed?” Jon asks.

Satin’s face is covered in dirt, and there’s a wound that’s bleeding from his temple. The blood is seeping into his hair, but he doesn’t seem to notice. His hands are trembling, so he reaches behind him to grab the table.

“Well, I didn’t piss myself this time,” Satin says, “so my smalls are dry, at least.”

Jon shakes his head, “A jape, now, of _all_ times.”

“It’s never a bad moment for a jape. Are you well, my lord?”

Jon, for the first time, surveys his body. There’s a dull throb in his left arm and a more persistent ache in his right thigh. Everything will hurt on the morrow, but nothing seems fatal. “Just some scrapes.”

“Are you lying?”

“No.”

Satin’s eyes fall shut, “I can’t bear to see you die again.”

Jon navigates the debris scattered on the floor until he’s within arm’s length of Satin, “I’ve no plans for that. There’s too much to do.”

“That _would_ be the reason you think your life matters.” He gives a bitter laugh and opens his eyes, “J-Jon, I—”

Since Jon became Lord Commander, Satin has never said his name. Before, when they were on more equal ground, Satin sometimes would. It’s been so long since he heard it that the lone syllable, in Satin’s sweet voice, stirs something in Jon’s heart. There’s no one else in his company that might just say his name in such an unguarded way.

It’s something Jon longs for very badly.

His steward’s eyes are still shut, dark lashes against pale cheeks. As if by instinct, Jon reaches up to cradle Satin’s face in his left hand. Even through his thick gloves, Satin’s skin feels cold. _He shouldn’t be here._ But he is _,_ and Jon doesn’t wish for it to be any other way. Satin opens his eyes at the contact, and the two of them are trapped there. Not for the first time, Jon can’t help but notice how pretty Satin’s eyes are.

“Satin.”

“My lord?”

The huge step backwards, like Satin remembered his place in the world, propels Jon forward so their lips meet. Satin goes so still, it’s like Jon is kissing the Wall. The whole endeavour is so inelegant that Jon half expects Satin to start laughing. 

He doesn’t.

Instead, Satin exhales softly, and his posture relaxes. He leans into Jon’s hand, just a fraction, and Jon takes it as permission. Aside from Ygritte, kissing wasn’t something he’d done a lot of—he wasn’t Theon, after all, but when Satin lets his weight rest against the table at his back, Jon hopes it’s because of him. Satin’s beard tickles against his lips, a detail Jon hadn’t considered. Desire echoes through Jon like a pounding drum when Satin lips part and grant him entry.

 _Would he think to say no?_ The very thought of it ruins the moment, and Jon pulls away.

“I’m sorry. That was...untoward of me. It won’t happen again.”

“Why?” Satin whispers. There’s a bout of silence before he speaks again, “I’m a whore, my lord.”

“You _aren’t._ Not here.”

Satin ducks his head and doesn’t respond.

* * *

It’s fortuitous that the next few months are a hectic, exhausting series of events because it means Satin falls into the bed in his steward quarters every night too tired to dwell on Jon kissing him. 

When Satin _does_ have a moment to think on it, his heart lurches painfully in his chest, and he’s overcome with this nervous giddiness that, honestly, he thought was killed in him long ago. He is— _was—_ a whore, and Jon’s kiss has him tripping over himself like a maiden in the summer.

The kiss also leaves Satin thinking more inappropriate thoughts in the dark of night. Thoughts of Jon opening the door to his room, kneeling beside his bed, and kissing him again. The thoughts aren’t new, but the kiss gives Satin _hope,_ and hope is a dangerous wager.

Jon falls back on propriety, and Satin isn’t brave enough to breach the barrier that creates. Jon is his lord, and the loyalty Satin feels to him is greater than to the Night’s Watch. The loyalty is just bound up with other emotions—friendship and affection and lust. Jon is the man Satin wants to follow, so he decides to love him in the way that he’s able.

Satin can make do with that.

Winterfell is little more than heaps of stone in some places. Jon spends his days dealing with repairing the castle, securing food supplies, and dealing with the Northern houses who decided to ally with the Boltons. He was a reluctant Lord Commander, but Satin has always thought Jon was a natural leader. He’s equally reluctant as the de facto Lord of Winterfell, regardless of the Red Priestess’s whispers about his destiny.

The odd assortment of men lingering at Winterfell—wildlings, Night’s Watch, the men Stannis Baratheon left before he rode South—call Jon all sorts of titles, but he tries to shrug them off.

The first time a man—Satin learns later that his name is Howland Reed—calls Jon _Lord Snow,_ Jon burst out into a bitter laugh.

“Not long ago, that name was used to mock me,” he says, “And now you want it to mean respect?”

Everyone in the hall shifts uncomfortably until Lyanna Mormont—who can’t be more than ten summer’s old, stands up and declares, “Bear Island recognizes no king in the North whose name isn’t Stark. Jon Snow may be baseborn, but he is the sole remaining heir of Ned Stark.”

There is some murmuring amongst those gathered, Stark bannermen who had sworn themselves to Stannis Baratheon to overthrow Roose Bolton. They all agree the Boltons shouldn’t hold Winterfell, but not all of them agree with Jon Snow. Loyalty to Stannis seems like a necessary evil, too.

Satin mostly thinks they, like most highborn, all enjoy their own voices a bit too much. Only Jon isn’t like that.

“Robb is dead, and I wish every day that he weren’t. Father is dead, and I wish everyday that he weren’t, too.” Jon take a deep breath and rises from his chair, “I wanted to join the Night’s Watch and be a ranger like my uncle, Benjen Stark. This...this is _not_ what I asked for. I pledged myself to the Night’s Watch until death, which _happened._ I bear the scars. If Bran or Rickon do yet live, when they return, I’ll step aside. Until then, unless one of _you_ desires this role, who else is going to do it?”

They all fall silent at that—except Lyanna Mormont; she throws back her head and starts laughing.

* * *

Jon’s tries to prepare himself for the events to come—there’s a war brewing to the north _and_ the south. He can’t predict everything, so he imagines as many scenarios as he can. He tries to do what Father would do, what Robb would do.

 _But Robb had gotten himself killed._ Jon doesn’t want to think of it that way, but he broke his oath to the Frey’s and paid with his life. Father, too, had been trying to do what he felt was just and lost his head. 

When Jon looks at the scars on his body, when he remembers the sharp pain of the knives and falling into cold blackness, he remembers that _he_ was trying to do what he thought was right, too. It made him blind to a dozen warning signs. He wants to be prepared for the next knife in the dark, for the next betrayal.

Jon couldn’t have prepared for Sansa arriving at Winterfell’s gates.

In fact, when Grenn knocks on the door to his solar, Jon nearly accuses him of lying. _If_ there was someone at the gates claiming to be Sansa, it would be just like how Ramsey had been wed to _Arya._

Normally, Jon would have a guest brought to his solar, but if there’s even the smallest chance, he has to see for himself. When he arrives, the portcullis has been raised and a small group of riders—not more than ten—are gathered.

At the sight of him, the nearest rider slides out of the saddle and removes a hooded cloak. _Sansa._ She’s older. Her cheekbones are too sharp under her pale skin. Her hair is bound in a braid and pulled over her shoulder; all but the hair near the crown of her head is a fading, plain brown. 

It’s unmistakably her.

She says, “We heard you’d taken Winterfell from the Boltons.”

 _“Sansa,”_ Jon gasps.

“J-Jon.”

There’s no words to convey the feeling in Jon’s heart. It’s all he can do to hold out his arms. Sansa runs to him, throwing her arms around his neck and burying her face in his shoulder. Even though she’s half-a-head taller than when he last saw her, Jon’s grown some, too, so he lifts her into his arms. 

_“How_ did you get here, and where have you been?”

“It’s a long tale,” she replies, “I’ll tell you the entire thing, but first, Arya—”

Jon finishes, “She isn’t here.”

“Nor is she with us, but Jon, she was seen only a few months ago.”

A gruff voice calls out, “The little she-wolf left me to die. Seven hells knows where she is now.”

“Bran and Rickon,” Jon squeezes her tighter, “I don’t know where, but I think they yet live. One of my brothers saw Bran near the Wall.”

“I...I heard they were killed and their bodies burned,” she whispers, “by Theon.”

“A lie.”

“Thank the Seven,” Sansa pulls back to survey him, “Jon, you’re a man grown. You look like Father.”

Jon nearly tells Sansa she’s the image of Lady Catelyn, but instead he asks, “Who is in your company?”

“Oh, they’re—”

“You can begin with me, Lady Sansa; I’m sure to be the least popular here.” Jaime Lannister pushes the hood of his cloak down and looks around. “This castle looks even worse than it did last time I was here, and the bar was low even then.”

 _“Jaime,”_ a very tall, blonde person on the horse next to Jaime scolds him.

“You brought a _Lannister_ here, Sansa? The Lannisters are who declared the Boltons lords of Winterfell. They helped kill Father.” Jon reaches for Longclaw where it’s strapped across his back. “Where’s the trick?”

“Wait, Jon. Ser Jaime and Lady Brienne rescued me from the Vale. He swore an oath to Mother that he’d return me to Winterfell.”

Jon keeps his hand around Longclaw’s hilt and looks at Jaime Lannister, “Is that true, Kingslayer?”

Jaime raises his arms above his head and stretches, revealing the stump of his right arm from under his cloak. _So it’s true_ _he’s lost his swordhand._ He’s a bit grayer than when he’d visited Winterfell with King Robert before Jon left for the Night’s Watch, but even in his tired, plain travelling clothes, Jaime _still_ looks like he could be a king.

“Would I have ridden to this frigid, ass end of the world if it wasn’t?”

The woman, who must be Lady Brienne, sighs and says, “Lord Snow. Ser Jaime tasked me to find Lady Sansa and bring her home.”

“Always the most idealistic version of the tale, wench,” he throws back his head and laughs, “Besides, Lady Sansa is my goodsister now, if only technically.”

Jon thinks of Satin. The way his dark eyes watch as he pours Jon’s wine. The way his lips had felt during the kiss, and the distance Jon hadn’t meant to create between them. _It makes sense, now, why I couldn’t stop my eyes from wandering to Jaime Lannister._ The man was insufferable, but he is beautiful. Maybe Jon has a weakness for pretty things.

“Please, Jon,” Sansa touches his arm, “I trust them with my life, and they risked themselves greatly to find me. Grant them your hospitality, and I’ll tell you everything.”

Sansa could be Jon’s only blood left alive in the entire world. She could’ve shown up at Winterfell riding a dragon with a Lannister army at her back, and Jon would’ve let her in when she vouched for their honor.

“Of course, Sansa. We’ll find you quarters, and we can speak after.”

Back in his chambers, Jon paces an anxious loop around the perimeter of the room. Satin leans against the desk and watches, hands clasped in front of him.

“My lord, you’re going to wear through the floor if you keep that up.” His tone is airy, a simple tease that’s safe.

It does make Jon cease his walking.

“Wardens of the North have paced in this room for a thousand years,” Jon replies, slumping into a chair, “but, with my luck, you’re probably correct.” 

“Is there anything I can prepare?”

Jon stares at Satin, mind utterly empty except for the slight, concerned crease between Satin’s brows. He’s been clean-shaven for the last few weeks. Jon stares when he hopes Satin won’t notice, but he doesn’t ask about the change. Maybe it’s simply access to Winterfell’s bathes—the hot water pumped in from the underground spring _is_ nice.

“Um,” he finally replies, “please.”

Satin laughs, “I’ll fetch wine and food. Something decent, if I can manage.”

“Thank you, Satin.”

When he passes by, Jon reaches out and takes Satin’s wrist. It’s easy to circle his fingers around it. Satin stops and looks down at Jon, but he can’t tell what’s going on behind his eyes. 

“My lord?”

“I...I grieved Sansa. I grieved all of them. I was alone at Castle Black, a place I’d chosen to be, and my family was torn apart. As children, Sansa and I weren’t close, but now…”

“I’m sure you’ll work out what’s between you.”

“I hope so.”

* * *

Jon spends the entire afternoon, and the next one and the next, talking with Lady Sansa. Satin pours them wine and tries to make himself scarce, only checking back in occasionally to see if anything needs refreshed. 

Satin tries not to eavesdrop—a childhood in a brothel made him very adept at ignoring things he didn’t wish or would get swatted at for overhearing. Being silent and unobtrusive meant being safer. Still, he catches snippets of Jon and Sansa’s conversations. They talk of their childhoods, old grievances, their lost family members, and the future. On the first afternoon, both of them are still in their chairs. On the second, Lady Sansa sits a bit closer and Jon’s shoulders relax.

On the third afternoon, Lady Sansa giggles, and Satin smiles to himself as he pours more wine. When he places it on the small table between them, bowing slightly, Jon’s _thank you_ is less stilted, and he holds Satin’s gaze just a bit too long. It’s a good thing Satin already set the wine down, or he might’ve dropped it.

Not spending the afternoon with Jon isn’t strange; his routine varies—sometimes Jon holds audiences for people who are visiting, or he tours the keep surveying things. Other days, Jon holes himself up his solar writing correspondence or reading missives. On those days, Satin runs up and down the stairs to the rookery a half-dozen times. 

The wildlings aren’t terribly interested in the grievances of the high houses of Westeros, but everyone else whispers about the presence of a Lannister at Winterfell. When the Kingslayer enters a room, the occupants give him a wide berth and conversation stops.

Experience has made Satin wary of most highborn. He keeps his distance, grateful that Jon hasn’t tasked him with anything that would force an interaction. Despite this, it only takes a few days for Satin to run into Brienne of Tarth by sheer coincidence in Winterfell’s library. 

She’s seated at a small table under the window and glances up from her book when Satin footfalls make enough noise that she notices him. He feels the urge to apologize, but Brienne speaks before Satin has the chance.

“You can sit here, if you’d like,” she says, “The light is nice this time of day.”

Satin clutches the book he’d chosen and sits in the unoccupied chair, “Thank you, my lady.”

“Do you come here often?”

“Um,” Satin stumbles, “In the afternoon, if I’m free. I read in the evenings, as well.” Sometimes, he sits in front of the fire in Jon’s solar and rests his head on Ghost’s flank as he reads.

“It’s quiet here,” Brienne sighs and closes her eyes.

“I think it’s the quietest place in the castle,” Satin agrees. The height of the tower drowned out most of the den below. “Most people here can’t read.”

Brienne glances at a shelf of books, “I suppose that’s a fair point. There’s little use for the entire tower, in that case.”

“The wildlings are distrustful of writing; they say it breeds nothing but trouble.”

“It records stories,” she traces the spine of her book with a large finger. If Satin held his hand up against hers, Brienne’s would dwarf his. “What are you reading?”

Satin holds the book up, “It’s about Bran the Builder. I’ve been trying to learn about Winterfell.” It was silly, but learning about the history of the Starks made him feel closer to Jon. Satin wanted to absorb all the details he could. “I’m worried it’s a bit too much for me.”

“Too much?”

“I don’t...I don’t read very well.” Satin never thought to be ashamed of that until he became Jon’s steward. _What good were books to a whore?_ A literate steward could prove useful. “I’m past the picture books of the Age of Heroes.”

Brienne flushes, “I love books like that. When I was a girl, I wanted to be a knight.”

She’s far from beautiful, but there’s a grace and kindness to Brienne that makes it hard for Satin to look away. Her shoulders are broad, and she barely fits in the tiny chair at the table. There’s a scar marring her right cheek, but her eyes, deep blue pools, are worth every awkward feature. Brienne makes a compelling whole.

“You sound like a knight already, my lady. I’ve heard bits of the story of your rescue of Lady Sansa.”

“That was little more than—” she shakes her head, “I never asked your name.”

His name was another thing Satin never considered being ashamed of until he left Oldtown. Nevertheless, it’s the only name he has. “It’s Satin, my lady.”

“Satin,” Brienne repeats, “I’m a poor lady, so there’s no need. Brienne is fine.”

 _She’s humble._ It reminds Satin of Jon, which makes a warm feeling creep up his neck and onto his face. “I’m just a steward, my lady. I’m not sure I can be so forward.”

Realization dawns on Brienne’s face, “You’re Lord Snow’s steward.”

“He mislikes being called that.” Although Satin was guilty of using the title, too. _Jon_ only existed, soft and intimate, in his mind. “It’s been used as a taunt.”

“I told Jaime he shouldn’t say it in that _tone,”_ Brienne sighs, “but he does as he pleases, even if it cuts his nose off to spite his face.”

 _Jaime._ Brienne doesn’t stumble over the name; she says it like it’s what she calls him both aloud and in her heart. Satin doesn’t know anything else about their relationship, but he envies that. 

“It seems like Ser Jaime follows you around, my lady. Today is the first time I’ve seen you apart.”

Brienne blushes quite spectacularly and reaches up to press her hands against her cheeks. Satin guesses they’re of a similar age, but the reaction is so girlish he feels like he crawled from the crypts below the castle in comparison.

“It’s only that he’s uncomfortable, and I’m familiar. I started the quest alone, but he abandoned everything to help bring Lady Sansa here. I don’t think he expected a warm reception, but he _does_ care.”

Satin adds that to his image of the Kingslayer and finds it doesn’t quite fit. He’s also not sure he wishes to get close enough to find out. “That...seems quite different from his reputation.”

“I know,” she sighs again, “but there’s little I can do about it. Jaime is stubborn. I told him he might try ingratiating himself to our hosts, but…”

“Men are stubborn,” Satin shrugs.

“I’m not sure it’s stubbornness; it’s more like...he’s protecting himself,” Brienne says, _“I’m_ the pig-headed one.”

“We all...do what we must.” Satin buried his heart so deep he wasn’t sure he’d ever unearth it. He thinks, some days, that he’s closer, but other times, it’s more elusive. He doesn’t want to tell Brienne, if the truth of his past hadn’t already made its way to her ears. She seems kind, but Satin finds well-meaning pity worse. “Sometimes, wearing a mask is all we can do.”

They fall into silence after that, Brienne turning the pages at a much faster rate than Satin. He stumbles over some words and thinks of asking but can’t quite make his mouth form the question. Brienne and he sit there until the afternoon light from the window shifts, and the pages become hard to see.

“I should go,” Satin rises from the table, “I’ve duties to tend to.” Jon will probably head back to his chambers soon and won’t eat if food isn’t placed in front of him. 

“The silence was nice,” Brienne replies, “I-I hope that doesn’t sound discourteous.” 

“Not at all, my lady.”

* * *

“I can’t put it off forever, Satin.”

Satin arches a brow at Jon, and all the words he _doesn’t_ say are contained in the gesture. He’s picking up and moving items that don’t need moved; it reminds Jon of how he’d fidgeted with the clothes on the scarecrows atop the Wall. When Satin is anxious or bored, he cleans.

“Is this about meeting Ser Jaime?”

“It’s been a fortnight since Sansa arrived,” Jon sighs, “I need to figure out his intentions for remaining at Winterfell.”

“I’ve been talking with Lady Brienne. I’m not sure Ser Jaime has anywhere else to go.”

Jon crosses his arms and fully realizes he looks grumpy, “I know Sansa vouches for him, and I trust her, but I don’t trust _him.”_

Satin makes eye contact with him, and, as always, Jon’s heart gallops away from him a bit. He’s grown more comfortable with his reactions over the last few months. Kissing Satin again isn’t prudent, but Jon allows himself to look _._ Now that he’s looking, Jon notices all sorts of details—the elegant motion of Satin’s hands as he pours wine, the way his dark hair tumbles over his shoulder as he bends over a book, the way his lips turn upward as he recounts an amusing story. 

Just like the kiss, Jon’s attraction creates a wave of guilt; Satin won’t want to be leered at by his commander. Satin wants to be treated like a person, _respected._ Jon will be better than the men he punished for their bad behavior.

“Do you want me to send for him?”

“...No.”

“You’re in charge, my lord; if you summon him, he will come.”

Jon rubs his temples, “Why does _that_ underscore the ridiculousness of this entire situation?” The bastard of Winterfell summoning Jaime Lannister to his solar. “The last time I saw him, I was ten-and-four.”

Satin stops fussing with the items on the table and comes to Jon’s desk, “You’re nervous?”

“I don’t know.” Jon laments this entire conversation. “I’m not supposed to be here.”

“It might not mean much, but I think you’re where you ought to be.” Satin reaches out, like perhaps he intends to touch Jon’s shoulder, but he stops short. “Do you want me to summon Ser Jaime?”

“....Aye.”

Winterfell is expansive, so Jon is left waiting quite a while, and when Jaime comes waltzing into his solar, he doesn’t even knock. Satin vanished somewhere on the route back, and Jaime is alone.

“Your steward said you wanted to see me, _Lord Snow.”_

The title rankles Jon, somehow more so from Jaime, but Jon thinks he keeps his expression neutral. “I wanted to thank you for your part in bringing my sister home.”

Jaime laughs, “That was mostly Brienne’s efforts. I just joined for the glory at the end.”

“Sansa told me of your oath to Lady Catelyn. I was...surprised to learn of it.”

“A mother’s desperation, surely,” Jaime sprawls into the chair opposite the desk, “Lady Catelyn wouldn’t have freed me otherwise.”

Ghost takes an interest in Jon’s guest and rises to sniff at Jaime’s boots. Jaime goes rigid in his chair at the sight of the direwolf, and Jon has to stop himself from grinning.

“She did love her children,” Jon can’t totally disguise the old hurt of it; he does grieve what happened to her, and he knows the depth of Sansa’s sadness. “I’m not really surprised at what she did.”

“I confess I never thought I’d be in this frozen hell again.”

Jon confesses, “I never thought to be here again, either.” He’d thought, perhaps, he might visit Winterfell as Uncle Benjen had from time-to-time, but this wasn’t that. 

“And you’ve become a man, Jon Snow. Did you even have facial hair last time I was here?”

Jaime Lannister telling Jon he’s become a man makes him feel like a green boy. Years ago, he’d wanted to see Jaime and looked a bit too long. The golden man who Jon thought looked like a king isn’t so perfect anymore. Jaime is bearded, grayer, and keeps a glove over the false gold hand resting in his lap. Jon’s grown, too—he thought Jaime was attractive, and he still does. It doesn’t surprise him any longer; it also doesn’t make Jaime less irritating. 

“You’ve become old,” Jon says.

“One-handed and useless, too,” Jaime agrees, “Nevertheless, I _am_ here. I swore to protect Lady Sansa, too. I’ve made poor choices, some of which I don’t deserve forgiveness for, but I’d give my life to defend her.”

The words are earnest, and Jon believes them. He also thinks that he could beat Jaime in a fight, if needed.

“Those were the words I needed to hear.”

At a much later hour, Satin nags him into taking a walk outside. He keeps pace with Jon and whispers, “I can see why Ser Jaime’s beauty is famed across the Seven Kingdoms.”

“I suppose he’s handsome...objectively,” Jon deflects.

“He told me on the way to your solar that he thought you stared at him last time he was here.”

“...I’ll kill him,” Jon grumbles and stares at the field of snow. “Wait, do you think so, too?”

Satin grins, “If a man like him bought a night with me, I might’ve been pleased. I don’t think Ser Jaime would, though.”

“Buy a night with a man, or—”

“Buy a whore at all,” Satin finishes, “I think he’s a romantic.”

Jon is confused, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he says, “Satin, you’d be...happy, with a man, I mean. It wasn’t just—”

“...Something I suffered through because I had no choice? It was that, too, but when I think about what _I’d_ enjoy, it’s still usually a man.”

“Truly?” Jon hates the flicker of hope that ignites in his chest.

“Are you not the same, my lord? At least...sometimes.”

Jon doesn’t dare look at Satin. “Sometimes.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: honestly, just lots of smut.


	3. your touch brought forth an incandescent glow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “...You kissed me,” Satin finishes. He wants to be kissed again; it’s been so long that it feels like a half-forgotten dream. “J-Jon.”
> 
> Jon scrambles over the food scattered between them, nearly crushes the rest of the bread with his knee, and kisses him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for all the wonderful comments! This chapter is a few days later than I intended, but I hope everyone enjoys it nonetheless.

As the situation at Winterfell grows less tenuous, Satin finds that he has an hour or two most evenings to spend with a book. He sits on the floor near the fire in Jon’s solar, sometimes with Ghost nearby, and reads. Learning his letters was one of the only kindnesses paid to Satin growing up in the brothel, but it doesn’t mean he’s very skilled at reading. It takes him entire evenings to get through a few pages, and he still finds himself asking Lady Brienne questions the next time they meet. 

Jon would probably answer his questions, too, but he’s usually still pouring over reports when Satin retires to his steward chamber. Satin wants to tell Jon that he needs to sleep, but it’s not his place. Tonight, as Satin reads, Jon’s stomach growls loud enough that he can hear it from halfway across the room.

The first time, Satin ignores it, but the second time, he closes his book and says, “My lord, would you like me to fetch you sometime from the kitchens?”

Startled, Jon looks up from the parchment littering his desk, “Oh, there’s no need, Satin. I ate supper.”

 _“Hours_ ago. It’s the hour of the ghost, my lord; you should be asleep.”

Jon sighs, “Has it truly been that long?”

“You get lost in your work,” Satin replies, “Are you sure you don’t want anything? The kitchen girls aren’t awake baking bread yet, but there’s probably something.”

“I’ll accompany you. I think I require a break,” Jon stands from the desk and brushes his hands on his breeches.

“If it pleases you.” It definitely pleases Satin, but he doesn’t say so.

The kitchens are a bit of a walk, and Satin is glad they don’t have to go outside. Before they leave, Jon calls to Ghost to join them, but he only raises his head a fraction before closing his eyes and lying back down in front of the fire.

“I think my direwolf’s grown lazy,” Jon says with a small smile on his face, “He hasn’t been hunting in at least a sennight.”

Satin glances back as they turn a corner, “Can you...tell?”

Jon nods, “I dream when he hunts, but apparently not when he’s sleeping off a dinner of table scraps.”

“I suppose that’s not as exciting.”

The kitchens are empty and dark, so they wind their way through the large wooden tables to the larder. Satin tucks a loaf of bread under his arm that he finds resting in a basket on one of the tables. The larder was nearly barren when they arrived at Winterfell, but Jon’s efforts, and then Lady Sansa’s, the greenhouse was growing vegetables again and their stores of grain and salted meat were replenished. 

Jon pauses for a moment, staring at the offerings in the larder. When he seems content with his selection, including a wineskin he asks, “Arya and I used to sneak down here when we were children in the middle of the night. She was too scared to go alone, though she’d never admit it.”

“She sounds strong,” Satin says, “Lady Sansa is, too.”

“Aye,” Jon nods, “Arya always wanted to hunt and ride and shoot with Robb and me. I gave her a sword when I left for the Night’s Watch. She named it Needle.”

“I...I’m sure she’s safe.”

“There’s a place we always sat,” Jon begins walking again, “It’s this way.”

Over the past few months, Satin has picked up snippets of Jon’s boyhood. His closeness with Robb and Arya. His resentment at being a bastard. The fact that Lady Catelyn never accepted him. His desire to live up to his father. The more Satin learns, the more his affection for Jon grows. It’s getting a bit hard to keep a lid on.

Winterfell is full of unused rooms like the one Jon leads him to. When they enter, Jon closes the door behind them. The fire is dark until Jon lights it, illuminating a dusky space filled with crates, their shapes looming in the darkness. He pulls a very dusty set of furs closer to the fire and shakes it out. 

“I can’t believe _any_ of this is still here. Arya used to jape that this room hadn’t been used since Bran the Builder had giants help build the castle.”

“Is that...true?”

“The giants? I never thought so as a boy, but I suppose I’ve _seen_ giants now,” Jon says.

“I’ve seen many things I thought I never would.”

Satin sits down, glad for the furs as a buffer between him and the stone floor. The fire is warm, too. Jon sits beside him and starts slathering a piece of bread with butter. Satin takes a piece of dried apple he’d collected and puts it in his mouth and follows it with a piece of cheese. Jon passes him a piece of bread, and they eat in companionable silence.

“We haven’t sat together in what feels like an age.”

“You’re very busy, my lord.” Satin misses their quiet evenings at Castle Black; he didn’t appreciate them enough at the time.

 _“Jon._ You used to just call me Jon.”

Satin misses that, too—another thing he took for granted. “You weren’t Lord Commander then.”

He sighs, and his shoulders slump a bit, “I miss being...among everyone, I suppose. The last time you said my name—”

“...You kissed me,” Satin finishes. He wants to be kissed again; it’s been so long that it feels like a half-forgotten dream. “J-Jon.”

Jon scrambles over the food scattered between them, nearly crushes the rest of the bread with his knee, and kisses him. Last time, Satin was so shocked he was rendered immobile; this time isn’t much better. Jon rests a firm hand on his shoulder, but the kiss is the briefest of touches. It’s over before Satin can tell if Jon tastes like the wine they shared. The hand on Satin’s shoulder stays put, and Jon is still kneeling on the furs beside him.

“I’ve wanted to do that every time we’re alone together for _months,”_ Jon says.

“Why haven’t you?”

“Because I’m weak about matters like this,” he sighs, “once I begin, I find it hard to stop myself.”

 _He wants me._ That’s something Satin can understand; he was desired long before he understood it. “Why would you stop? Does it bother you to lay with a man as you might a woman? You can pretend; men have done worse.”

“That...that’s not right, Satin.”

Satin rubs his hands together, feels the callouses from archery and a dozen other tasks over the last two years. His face is shaven, now, but he remembers staring into the looking glass at his beard and thinking few would buy him looking as such _._ “It soothed them—their pride, maybe their egos. Most men didn’t want to admit that they wanted to fuck a boy. I...understand, if that’s it. I was...prettier, more delicate, more valuable, when I was younger.”

“You’re mistaken.”

“I can be anything. Jon. For you...for you, I would.”

“Be yourself, then. I...I want to meet you on even ground. You don’t need to pretend to me, but I do want to worry that you’re afraid to refuse me.”

Since Satin was a boy, the shame was his to bear, even though the men who paid coin for his body were the ones who created it. Jon was a better man than any who’d had him in the past; his fantasies would be kind.

“I’m not afraid,” he finds himself smiling, “When I think about you...it’s _good._ You’re kind, and you ask.”

Jon squeezes his shoulder and turns a bit red under his beard. He’s politely ignored dozens of moments where Satin was embarrassed or otherwise inept, so Satin extends the courtesy. 

“You’ve...thought about me?” Jon asks.

Suddenly, sharing his fantasies doesn’t seem too bad. _“Mhm._ Sometimes you come into my chamber at night and wake me up with a kiss. Or we’ll be back in the maester’s turret, and you turn me over and push me onto the table. Once, I dreamed I was back in Oldtown, and you bought me.”

“I—I— _what?”_ Jon looks at him, slackjaw.

Satin starts laughing, “That was a queer dream because you asked _me_ to fuck you. You were quite shy about it, too.”

“Did you...do it?”

“I did,” Satin sobers up, “but I was nervous.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve not often done so.”

“I...I confess that I suffer from a lack of imagination, but when I think of you it’s not...purely fraternal. I’ve thought of the kiss we shared.” Jon looks away. “You’re pretty. Handsome? I don’t know what you wish to hear. I’ve thought that since long before I realized what it meant.”

 _“Pretty,”_ Satin echoes, “like a maiden. The madame at the brothel used to tell men I’d never been touched. I don’t know many believed her, but they’d pay gold dragons for the fantasy of it.”

“I won’t call you that if you don’t like it.”

“No, it’s...sweet.”

Jon looks so handsome in the flickering firelight that Satin almost can’t bear it. His dark hair nearly dusts his shoulders. and the beard makes him like a man grown, like a leader. Satin wants to run his fingertips over the scars that run over Jon’s left eye. He’d trace the others on his torso the same way, if Jon would let him. The thought begins the stirrings of desire in him, to see Jon reveal himself slowly. 

He leans close again, just so their lips are brushing. The hand gripping Satin’s shoulder slides upward to cradle his head. Satin’s heart quickens, and he hasn’t felt a fear like this since the battle on the Wall. Only now he’s braver and ready to face it.

“Satin, if we mean to do this, you’ll have to show me. I’ve heard crude jests, but—”

“I can guide you.”

“Perhaps we should...return to my chambers?” Jon sounds a bit eager, and it sends a shiver down Satin’s spine.

“If it pleases you, my lo— _Jon.”_

Jon rises and holds out his right hand. Satin takes it and lets Jon pull him to his feet. His hand is ungloved, and Satin imagines the scarred, roughened skin touching him. “It should please you, too.”

“It does.”

* * *

Jon chambers are just as he left them, but Jon certainly doesn’t feel the same. Never had a midnight visit to the kitchens proved so life altering.

Ghost barely raises his head when they enter. The fire has burned down a bit in their absence, so Satin puts more logs in it until it’s crackling again. Satin spends a moment petting Ghost, a sight that’s always made Jon feel warm. Before Satin stands, he kisses the crown of Ghost’s head and gives him one last scratch. He’s smiling when he turns to Jon, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Satin has always smiled and japed; it was why he made friends so quickly at Castle Black.

“It’s a long walk from the kitchens,” Satin looks downward, “I...I hope you haven’t had a change of heart.”

“No, not a change of heart.”

How anyone could have Satin standing in their chambers, pale skin bathed in firelight, and _not_ want him is unbelievable. He glances back up, and his dark eyes beckon Jon closer. That allure almost seems like part of the problem. 

Sansa told him that she felt reduced to an object—a token to be bid on and passed around as a prize rather than a person. _Does Satin feel the same?_ Satin had been prized and paraded around for his beauty. Jon isn’t sure how to separate himself from those other men, how to make sure Satin knows the truth.

“Nerves?” Satin gives a hallow chuckle, “It’s just fucking, Jon.”

“Is that all it is?”

Satin wrings his hands together, “I don’t know the rest. I don’t know anything about it at all.”

“With Ygritte, I convinced myself it was necessary. I had to prove myself to the Free Folk.”

“Jon, you’re not the first man to tell himself a lie.”

“I was weak,” he laughs bitterly, “She felt _good,_ and after the tenth, the fiftieth, the hundredth time, I didn’t care about my oath.”

“The flesh is weak,” Satin replies, “It’s not a sin to want.”

“Yet they make us swear not to, and we’re doomed to fail. It’s foolhardy. I loved her; although, I never told her.”

“I’m sure she knew.”

Jon shakes his head, “I earned her trust and betrayed it. She made me see the world differently. I know _why_ I betrayed, but it meant I hid parts of myself—important parts. I want to be honest, and to have you return it.”

Satin takes a deep, steadying breath as Jon waits. “I believe you want more than my body. If it was _only_ physical, I could—I’m afraid that when you get too close, you’ll see there’s nothing left of me.”

“Is that how you see yourself?”

“Do you think whores think about such things?”

Ygritte was open and demonstrative—kissing and embracing and cuddling under the furs. Bedding was one matter, but affection is different. Jon doesn’t know how it should be between men, but he’s long wanted to comfort Satin.

So, he does.

Satin folds into Jon’s arms as naturally as Ygritte had. He’s a bit taller, but he drops his head to Jon’s shoulder regardless, hands clutching Jon’s shirt. This close, Satin smells like the sweet perfume he used to comb into his beard. Jon doesn’t know anything about flowers, but he buries his nose in Satin’s hair anyway.

“I’ve been close for a while,” Jon whispers, “You’re brave and clever and honorable. You’re still kind, after everything.”

“I thought you were being honest?” 

“I died and woke up to you looking down at me with tears in your eyes. You’ve been with me everyday since, and I don’t want that to change.”

 _“Jon,”_ Satin’s voice sounds close to tears, “now you’re just being unfair.”

“Why?”

“Because you sound _dashing_ when you say things like that, and I—I _want_ to believe you.” Satin looks at him. His eyes are swimming with tears, but they remain unshed. “You’ll make me swoon, and then where will we be?”

 _A simple answer._ Something Jon knows; Ygritte would cackle in his ear.

After an endless parade of hard choices and harder victories, when Jon feels like a bastard impostor, haunted by the ghost of his father, his siblings, the people he failed, _this_ is easy. Kissing Satin feels right. So does brushing his tongue against Satin’s closed lips and feeling him yield until there’s nothing but wet heat. Satin tastes like the wine and fruit they shared, and he grips Jon’s shirt so tightly that it might forever bear the marks. They fumble a bit in the newness—Satin’s second kiss lands at the corner of Jon’s mouth, and their noses bump together when they try to correct it.

Satin starts tugging Jon back to the bed, seemingly unwilling to break the kiss. They find a rhythm, Satin sitting on the bed with Jon standing between his spread thighs. Whenever they part, Satin makes eye contact, and Jon’s heart aches so acutely that he almost can’t draw air into his lungs. A lifetime ago, when they stood side-by-side in the Wall, Satin’s cheeks had been bright red from the cold. He’s just as flushed now, and the sight makes Jon’s breeches tighten.

Jon tangles his fingers in Satin’s raven curls and kisses the pale column of his throat. Satin is still gripping his shirt and sighing effusively with every press of Jon’s lips. 

When Jon reaches the barrier of Satin’s shirt, he asks, “May I undress you?”

“You’re _asking,”_ he sounds a bit awed. “That’s—of course.”

“Lift your arms, then.” 

Satin obeys, vanishing and then reappearing with an entire new expanse of skin for Jon to marvel over. His lips are red from kissing, and the flush from his cheeks continues down his neck. Jon reaches out to smooth down Satin’s mussed hair, and suddenly they’re kissing once more. Jon touches every inch of Satin’s unmarred skin. Satin’s hands dart under Jon clothes, teasing touches that stir Jon to an almost painful state of arousal. 

“I want you,” he says against Satin’s lips, “All of you.”

Something about the words make Satin whine—a low, needy noise that pierces Jon straight through. If the noise were a blade, the wound would be fatal. Instead, it makes his blood feel white-hot and rush to between his thighs. Satin will have the upper hand, later, and Jon will need instruction, but until then—

Jon wants Satin exposed and gasping and crying out. He wants to taste every inch of Satin’s skin until it’s made rosy from the rasp of his beard. It’s such a heady idea that Jon is kneeling between Satin’s thighs before he realizes. Satin, maybe subconsciously, widens his thighs, pressing them into the side of the mattress. Jon locates the firm line of Satin’s cock constrained by his breeches and closes his right hand over it. The pressure makes Satin gasp. With his other hand, Jon rubs the pad of his thumb over each of Satin’s nipples. They’re dusky in the warm firelight, and they harden under his touch. There’s a fine patch of dark hair on Satin’s chest that Jon drags his fingers through. 

It’s different from Ygritte, but Jon finds it stirs him all the same.

Satin tilts his head back, whimpering at the ceiling. Eventually, he falls back onto his elbows and presses his pelvis into Jon’s hand. The laces on his breeches are easy to undo, even with the perpetual lingering stiffness in his fingers.

“J-Jon,” Satin says, “What are you doing?”

“Something I know feels good.”

“You...there’s no need—”

He cups his hand over Satin’s hip, “Please, it’s the one part I think I can manage.”

Satin laughs and helps Jon push the fabric down past his hips, “The Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch is going to suck a whore’s cock. A bad jape.”

“Wait until _after_ to decide if it’s a jape.” 

Jon studies Satin, naked except his breeches bunched around his calves, for a long time before reaching for him. It’s right at eye level, so the way Satin’s cock rests against his stomach draws his gaze. Jon spares an upward glance to what the anticipation of being touched is doing to Satin. His breaths are coming in short pants, but he doesn’t demand anything. 

Jon wouldn’t mind if Satin did.

He circles his fingers around the base of Satin’s cock. Jon’s only touched himself, and he’s certainly never used his mouth to pleasure another man. Hopefully, Satin will forgive his inelegance. When Jon takes the head of Satin’s cock into his mouth and circles his tongue around it, Satin nods rapidly. The slight salty tang on his tongue is odd, but the weight of it feels good.

Jon pushes himself to take a bit more, then pulls back and repeats the motion. As he applies pressure, Satin collapses onto the bed into a heap. The first moan that passes Satin’s lips goes straight to Jon’s own neglected arousal. 

Satin sighs and reaches for Jon, fingers sliding into his hair at the base of his skull. At first, Jon thinks Satin is going to hold him there and not let him retreat, and the thought is surprisingly thrilling. His hips jerk forward, not quite rising off the bed, nearly overwhelming Jon with the sensation.

“J-Jon,” Satin stutters, fingertips massaging circles against Jon’s scalp, “I want—”

 _“Mmmm,”_ is Jon’s only response, but he tries to sound enthusiastic.

“Do it from the beginning again.”

Satin’s cock is slick with saliva when Jon takes it back in his hand. Two brisk strokes, he cries out. Jon takes Satin into his mouth a second time, all the way to the base, and presses his tongue against the underside as he sucks. Satin’s minute thrusts and gasps make the moment last forever. It’s quite heady to see him so unmoored, and Jon doesn’t want to stop.

Suddenly, Satin starts to push him away, crying out his name, but it’s too late. Satin’s climax arrives, and Jon releases his cock with a wet _pop_ halfway through. Some of Satin’s spend ends up in Jon’s mouth, but the majority lands _everywhere_ else. The taste is odd, but the _mess._

“Oh, _gods,_ I wanted to warn you, but I—” Satin swipes his thumb across Jon’s cheek, trying to collect the mess. “I—I’m _sorry.”_

Once the surprise wears off, Satin looks so horrified that Jon starts laughing. Once he starts, it’s hard to stop, especially as Satin reaches for his discarded shirt and starts wiping at Jon’s face. Jon allows the fussing for a time, but then he takes Satin’s wrist to halt him.

“Satin, there’s no harm. Just kiss me.”

He drops the shirt and pulls Jon onto the bed, lips crashing against his. Satin starts tugging at Jon’s clothes, divesting him of his shirt and breeches so quickly Jon swears it’s magic. The earlier kisses had a trepidation that seems to have been left behind. Satin makes an attempt to devour Jon, twisting his fingers into Jon’s hair as their tongues meet. 

The force behind Satin’s advance makes Jons head swim. He’s also a bit unprepared for Satin’s bare body writhing against his own. Bringing Satin to his peak and then Satin’s fervent response pushes Jon so he’s walking a knife’s edge.

Jon moans at a simple bit of friction, an embarrassingly loud sound that makes Ghost look over at them from where he’s sleeping. Satin starts laughing. When Satin quiets, he holds Jon close, hand rubbing small circles on his lower back.

“You’re truly not mad, Jon?” 

“Why would I be?”

“Because—” Satin pauses and ducks his head against Jon’s neck, “It’s just the past; it’s no matter.”

“Please. I’d hear it; if you’re willing.” 

“You...you saw to me first, even though I’m just a—” _Whore._ Satin doesn’t say it, but the word hangs between them. “I should’ve had better control. For something like that, I might’ve been slapped, or— _”_

“I made you feel good,” Jon answers, proud in a unique, intimate way, “It’s what I wanted.”

“I want that, too,” Satin replies, “Jon, will you fuck me?”

The very idea makes Jon’s whole body shiver in anticipation. Jon presses a kiss near Satin’s ear to steady himself. “Aye, if it’s what you want, I’ll try.”

“It is, and...unless you want to wait, I won’t be ready so soon.”

“I would wait, if you preferred.” They could pass an hour kissing and stroking and touching. Jon would be happy to explore what’s growing between them. “You’ll guide me?”

“Mhm.” Satin untangles himself from Jon and rises from the bed, “Wait a moment.”

* * *

Jon studies the vial of oil Satin presses into his palm. He wiggles the cork free, inhales, and smiles, “This smells like you.” 

His tone sounds fond, and Satin feels warm about that. His arousal is still dampened from his climax, but soon _,_ Jon’s hands and his words will rekindle it. Satin wants to be stoked to burning once more; he wants Jon all around him. The very thought makes his pulse quicken.

“Do you like that?” Satin thought he’d had enough of being desired for one lifetime, but Jon changed that.

“Very much,” Jon admits, “I assume we’ve need of it?”

 _So practical._ Satin shivers as he positions himself on the bed. Jon watches with a keen, open interest as Satin lays on his stomach on the furs, head pillowed one his arm. “It can hurt if you’re not prepared.”

Jon sits closer on the bed, close enough that Satin reaches out with his other hand to stroke his cock. Jon hisses in pleasure, and Satin likes the sound so much that he keeps doing it.

“If you want me to listen, that might not be the best idea,” Jon says, “To...prepare _,_ what’s done?”

“Fingers first, with the oil; it makes it easier.” Satin feels strangely sheepish as he explains and pulls his hand back. “I...I can do it myself. I used to because no one else would—”

“Let me,” Jon interrupts.

Jon comes close and runs his hand down Satin’s back. He shuts his eyes and relaxes into the furs. Jon’s hand drifts a bit lower, over the curve of Satin’s ass, and down to the backs of his thighs. He repeats the path a few times, until everything tingles, and Satin goes boneless.

“It might seem odd,” Satin mumbles eventually, “but keep going.”

“Slowly, for my own peace of mind.” 

Being unable to see what someone was doing always made Satin feel a bit sick with fear. He’d learn, long ago, to bury his reactions deep where no one would find them. Jon pulls out the stopper on the oil with a faint _pop,_ and Satin turns his head to hide his face, just in case. He doesn’t want to drive Jon away because the past gets between them.

The oil is warm when it hits his skin, but it feels a bit like Jon upended the bottle. It trickles down between Satin’s thighs, and it will definitely make it to the bed. In this much volume, the floral scent of it is cloying.

“That...came out faster than I expected,” Jon says.

Satin starts chuckling, “You dumped it, didn’t you?”

“I wanted there to be enough.” Satin can hear the embarrassment in Jon’s voice.

When Jon touches him, he’s so cautious that Satin is overwhelmed. Never has someone lingered so long. Jon presses the pads of his fingers against Satin’s entrance, as though he’s testing to see if what he’s trying to do is even feasible. The oil is slick and warm, and the roughness of Jon’s fingers is the perfect combination. Satin, suddenly needy in a way he’s never experienced, pushes back against Jon’s hand and whimpers.

“More?” Jon asks.

Satin nods but doesn’t raise his head. Jon’s first finger slips easily past the tight ring of muscle. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s been so long since Satin last felt the sensation that it makes him forget to breathe. It takes a moment, but eventually Jon slips further in, before pulling back and entering Satin again and again. Wantonly, Satin raises his hips off the bed and spreads his thighs, opening himself up so Jon will give him more.

“T-two,” Satin gasps, “fuck me with two.”

Each time Jon pushes his fingers into Satin, it makes the next pass easier. Jon’s breathing goes a bit ragged. Satin hopes it means the sight of spreading him open is driving Jon mad, too. Everytime Jon sees his fingers pulled deeper, Satin hopes Jon is imagining replacing them with his cock. Part of Satin wants Jon to jump ahead and fuck him, but the rest of him longs for Jon to tease him until he’s mindless with pleasure. He could be like that in front of Jon, and there would be no need to worry at all.

 _“Oh,_ Satin,” Jon sighs, “Can you look at me?”

Satin turns his head to look back; he knows his face is flushed, his hair sweat-damp and sticking to his neck and forehead. As soon as their eyes meet, Jon surges forward to claim Satin’s lips. He cups Satin’s face and holds him still as they trade kisses.

His mind is hazy with pleasure, but Satin manages to say, _“Three.”_

 _“Three?”_

“Please, Jon. It’s fine.”

It’s a stretch, and there’s a slight burn, but it gives way to pleasure. Satin groans into Jon’s mouth as he works his fingers in and out of him. When Satin feels overwhelmed, he drops his forehead back onto the bed. His cock is so hard again that it aches to find any kind of relief. The noises he’s making feel far away, like they’re coming from someone else. 

“I—I’m taking them out,” Jon says after what could be an hour.

Satin nods into the furs.

Jon collapses onto the bed next to him and reaches to trail his hand down Satin’s side. Satin shifts so he’s curled beside Jon, head resting on his shoulder. 

“I think I need a moment,” he admits.

“Aye,” Jon says, “Was that...enough? I may have lost sight of the goal.”

 _“More_ than enough,” Satin shut his eyes again, “I’m not accustomed to so much attention.”

They fall silent for a moment. Satin traces the scars from the knife wounds with his fingers and then follows with his lips. The skin is puckered and a bit rough under his hands. He thinks of Jon, cold and still on the table, and how he’d sobbed until his tears fell onto Jon’s skin. The journey from that moment to this one, the sheer luck that they’re both here, threatens Satin with tears once more.

To distract himself, Satin grabs the discarded oil and coats Jon’s cock with a firm upward stroke. The bottle is mostly empty, which makes Satin laugh. Jon looks like he might, too, but he sighs at Satin’s touch instead. He throws his leg over Jon and reaches for his cock. It’s slick and messy, but they shudder in unison when the head slips against the cleft of Satin’s ass and presses against his entrance.

“I trust you know what you’re doing,” Jon says, “but, please, don’t let me hurt you.”

Jon looks so solemn as Satin lowers himself. In fact, he’s never seen a man who’s about to fuck someone look so serious. There’s a tension in Jon’s whole body—-from the way he’s clenching his jaw to the way his hands are balled into fists. Every muscle is held rigid. Satin doesn’t stop until Jon is fully seated. Then, he leans forward and braces his hand on Jon’s chest near his heart. It’s racing, rabbit-quick, under Satin’s palm.

“Relax,” Satin leans down and kisses the corner of Jon’s mouth. He rocks his hips a bit as he does and a jolt of pleasure shoots up his spine. “It feels good.”

The tension leaches out of Jon, and he touches Satin’s cheek and kisses him. Even connected as they are, Satin hasn’t tired of the feel of Jon’s lips and the tickle of his beard. When Satin starts rolling his hips, finding the rhythm that suits them both, Jon holds onto his hips like they’re the last defense before sliding off a cliff. Satin’s been bruised by more than one unkind hand, but there’s only passion in the way Jon’s hanging onto him. If it shows in the daylight, Satin doesn’t mind at all.

Satin doesn't even mind when Jon slides his hands further back to grab his ass. Jon pushes his hips up against Satin's, the combination is so intense that he can't keep himself quiet. The moan that's wrenched out of him is so loud that Ghost raises his head and turns his ears in their direction.

Privacy was a luxury at the brothel and not afforded very often. Satin grew up amidst people fucking, and it only occurred him much later how peculiar that was. He learned quickly the lesson that it was better to be silent. A man who buys a woman for a night might want her moaning loudly as she bounces on his lap. They sometimes faked their pleasure—Satin started to be able to tell—but the men never noticed.

A man who buys a boywhore doesn’t want a performance; he wants submission. A man who buys a boywhore doesn’t want anyone to know because wanting someone like Satin came with ridicule at best, and shame at worst. Satin quickly learned that, pain or pleasure, silence was the safest course.

Jon starts chuckling, _“That_ sounded like it felt good.”

“S-Sorry,” Satin blurts.

“Why?”

Satin drops his forehead onto Jon’s chest, “For being loud. I...I learned it was best not to be.”

“The stone is thick enough that no sound will carry,” Jon loosens his grip and rests his hands on Satin’s back. “It...felt good to hear you.”

Satin pushes himself up and plants his hands on Jon’s chest. Jon’s pupils are blown wide in the firelight, and there’s a faint flush on his skin. “Truly?”

“Aye. Satin, I want to watch you.”

With Jon looking up at him, there’s no possibility for him to be imagining anything other than what he sees. Satin knows his features could still be considered pretty, and he’s still soft and pale in the way that made him sought after. His hands bear the signs of work, now, and there’s a jagged scar on his arm from where an arrow grazed him during the battle at Winterfell.

Jon’s eyes dart downward to where Satin’s cock rests against his stomach, hard once more and already leaking. There’s no way to pretend that Satin isn’t a man. Jon swallows, and Satin sees the muscles in his throat work as he does. 

“Like this?” Satin asks.

“Just like this,” Jon replies.

Satin rolls his hips again, and now that he’s upright, the angle hits right each time. If Jon wants to hear him, it won’t take much. His thighs tighten around Jon’s hips, and Satin loses himself to the pace he’s trying to keep—hard and fast in a bid to wring Jon’s climax out of him. The bed is ancient and sturdy, but the force is enough to make it knock against the wall at each thrust.

Jon reaches out and circles Satin’s cock, slick with oil, and he almost protests that it isn’t needed until the wave of sensation crashes over him. After a few strokes, the combination of Jon’s cock and his hand bring Satin to his peak. 

_Twice, now,_ Satin thinks, _I’ve made a mess._ Most of it gets on him, but Jon ends up with a splash across his chest. Satin tenses in his climax, and Jon says his name, once, low and guttural, as he spills into Satin. In the aftershocks, Satin falls forward, hands on the bed beside Jon’s head.

Jon’s chest heaves as she tries to catch his breath, “That was…”

“... _Good?”_ Satin hates the uncertainty that colors the word. He was good at being fucked, but that doesn’t mean he knows anything about what just happened between them.

“I enjoyed it,” Jon looks especially boyish, “I’d do it again as soon as we’re able.”

Satin smiles, “Do you have no plans to sleep?”

“One night without sleep won’t kill me,” Jon sighs and pushes one of Satin’s curls behind his ears, “I think we know what does.”

“Don’t jape about that.”

“If a man can’t jape about his own death, then who can?”

Satin touches one of the scars again, “Jon, was it only one night?” 

Jon tilts his head against the furs, “Is that what you want? It’s not what I want.”

“N-No. I—” _I want to remain here, for as long as you’ll have me._ Satin could be Jon’s steward by day and come to his bed at night. It would be a good life, better than a boywhore from Oldtown could ever imagine for himself. “I want to stay here; that hasn’t changed.”

“To show me all that and then run off...I think I’d be cross with you.”

Satin’s heart is beating rapidly in his breast. “Did I turn the Lord Commander into a wanton?” The jape comes easier than admitting he wants to warm Jon’s bed for the remainder of his days. 

Jon smiles and answers, “Mayhaps.”

* * *

His limbs feel like jelly, and they made quite the mess.

Jon wasn’t anticipating that, but in hindsight it makes sense. The entire bed smells like sex and the floral scent from the oil. Satin seems reluctant to part from him, so after he reaches again for his shirt to wipe up the worst of the mess, Jon tugs Satin against him and rests a hand on his back. When he shifts to lay on his side, Satin hides his head against Jon’s chest. Ygritte curled against him like this in the afterglow, and Jon always wished those moments were endless.

There’s no need for Satin to depart. There isn’t even any real need for him to return to his own chamber. Of course, if Satin wishes it, Jon will let him go, but he doesn’t want to. It’s much warmer, much nicer, here together. _Perhaps Satin would wish to be here every night._ It might not be wise to take what’s between them beyond Jon’s chambers. Jon remembers all too well every insinuation that Satin was his pet or his whore.

Some of the talk was much more than insinuation. _If the boywhore will get on his knees for the Lord Commander, he should do it for the rest of us, too._ Jon assigned midnight watch duty on the Wall to anyone who harassed Satin, and it came to look like he was playing favorites. His own reputation matters little—Jon is a bastard and wildling lover and an oathbreaker. Those who believed in him did so because he earned their loyalty. A task needed done, and Jon would do it until another, better person appeared. 

Satin hasn’t done anything wrong, and Jon won’t play a bigger role than he must in how others view him. It was a fine line to walk—protecting him too much or too little had similar outcomes.

“We should move,” Satin eventually mumbles.

 _“Mhm,”_ Jon agrees, untangling himself from Satin, who sighs. The sound nearly drags Jon back into kissing him again. When Satin starts to sit up, Jon puts his hand out to stop him. “I’ll fetch what’s needed.”

“But I’m your—”

“Satin, just relax.” 

Jon takes the pitcher on his table, pours some water into the shallow bowl, and grabs a cloth he assumes is clean. Satin was good about tasks like that. The water is uncomfortably chilly. In fact, the entire room is cold now that he’s unclothed and without another body to warm him. Jon adds more logs to the fire and walks back to the bed as fast as possible, hopefully without Satin noticing he wants to dash.

“You won’t enjoy the temperature of this water.”

“I warmed it hours ago,” Satin replies, “It’s probably the temperature of snowmelt by now.”

“Maybe not quite but close.” Jon sits on the edge of the bed, wets the cloth, and rings it out. Satin watches him intensely as he makes a pass at his chest and moves downward to his groin. He shivers a bit when Jon wipes at his cock, but Jon can’t tell if it’s from the cold or his touch. “Satin, if I’m to—I think you’re going to need to turn over.”

Satin flushes but obeys, hiding his face in his folded arms once more. Jon dips the cloth again but forgets to ring it out because he’s staring at the long line of Satin’s back. He wants to touch Satin again already—to count the bumps along his spine and end by running his fingers through Satin’s raven curls. Jon stares so long the cold water drips onto his thighs, and he yelps.

“Jon?”

“N-Nothing.”

Jon’s a bit unprepared for what running the cloth over this part of Satin’s body does to him. Satin squirms at each pass Jon makes, and the vulnerability in his posture makes Jon’s heart ache. He moves as tenderly as possible, rinsing the cloth and doing the whole thing a second time. Satin will probably still want to visit the baths, especially since Jon was overzealous with the oil. 

By the time Jon is satisfied, Satin breaths are quick and shallow. Jon is curious, so he asks, “Did you take pleasure in that?”

“I’m just...It’s a bit much,” Satin doesn’t raise his head, “I don’t know how to react; no one’s ever...”

Jon drops the cloth into the bowl and places it on the small table next to the bedstead. “That isn’t right, Satin.”

He turns his head enough for Jon to see his sad eyes, “I’m a whore. No one cares about what happens after. They take their pleasure, and then they go.”

 _I can’t change the past._ Jon would, if he could. He’d redo so many choices; he’d save so many people. Maybe he wouldn’t succeed, but there’d be no guilt from the paths he hadn’t taken. Faced with that impossibility, all Jon can do is choose his next course. 

“Satin, can you stand?”

He rises from the bed and hugs his arms against his chest; it’s quite a forlorn sight, like Satin expects Jon to banish him from the room. Jon wonders just how many times Satin has been thrown out or abandoned, and he knows he’d fly into a rage at the answer. He pulls pack the furs and the linens and gestures at them.

“Get in.”

His eyes go wide, but he slides between the blankets to the opposite side. Jon follows behind, undoing the ties on the curtains surrounding the bed. Satin unties the other side, plunging them into murky darkness.

“Jon?”

“I won’t leave, nor will I send you away. The choice to be here is your own, and you don’t...owe me anything. I—I hope you see it that way. I only want that which you give freely. I do desire it, though.”

“It’s freely given,” Satin answers, “Perhaps for the first time.”

Jon fumbles for Satin in the dark, palm landing against his chest, “Do you remember the night I died?”

“Of course, Jon.”

“You put your arm around me. I feel asleep hoping it would keep me...alive? Tethered to...something. To _you.”_

“I was afraid you’d vanish,” Satin whispers, “Or that I’d awaken to find the whole thing a dream, and you were truly dead.”

“Satin, what if tomorrow night you didn’t go back to your room?”

“I already stay long after you dismiss me, Jon.”

“Mayhaps, after you’ve finished reading, you come to my bed, but it’s because you _want_ to. And you stay until morning. And the next day you do the same thing.” Jon slides his hand down to Satin’s waist and tosses his arm over him. 

“Surely, no one would find aught amiss in a steward who’s attentive to his lord.” Jon can hear the smile in Satin’s voice, “Jon, are you asking me to be your lover?”

At the word _lover,_ Jon pulls Satin against his chest. Satin wraps one arm around Jon’s torso and slides one knee between Jon’s legs. They shift until they’re cocooned together in the center of the bed. Satin sighs happily and tilts his head up to kiss the underside of Jon’s jaw. The gesture makes Jon’s heart flutter in a way that’s too soft to put a name to.

“You’re my sworn brother and my friend,” Jon is adamant about both of those things.

“And your steward,” Satin finishes, “which I’m proud to be.”

 _Of course he knew that would worry me._ Satin knows many things that Jon has never spoken.

“Is there room for one more thing between us?”

“Jon, I—of course there’s room,” Satin lowers voice to a whisper, “A heart doesn’t run out of space.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time, Bran makes an appearance and gives Jon an existential crisis, and Brienne and Satin talk some more.


End file.
